


Morphine

by Oyakata_Manya



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Character Study, Dependency, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Or Maybe Not so Mild, Raiden-centric, Raiden’s cyborg body and every limitation that comes with it, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Weird robot porn, if my intended message comes through, sort of a, unhealthy thought processes, well kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oyakata_Manya/pseuds/Oyakata_Manya
Summary: And besides, he loved Rose. Whatever it was he felt for Snake—dependence, need, want—it certainly wasn’t love.
Relationships: Raiden/Rosemary (Metal Gear), Raiden/Solid Snake
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Morphine

**Author's Note:**

> Back when I wrote my mgs2-centric piece, I debated whether I wanted to include a snaiden scene or not. Ultimately I decided against it, as I felt that would narrow the audience of that fic.
> 
> Here, then, we have my take on snaiden. This fic is actually set during mgs4 (after That Scene—you know the one) so the ideas presented are a little different. But I wrote Raiden specifically the same way I wrote him in my other fic. So if he seems OOC, that’s why.
> 
> Anyways. Angst ahoy, along with a big splooge of headcanons and ultra-specific character interpretations.
> 
> Oh yeah, and robot porn. That too.

Raiden finds himself in the lavatory of the Nomad, later that day. 

He’d snuck past the watchful gazes of Hal Emmerich, and that little girl he’d given him—they know he has no business in here, and surely don’t trust him to be on his own in his condition. But he—he needs a second. Maybe two. He needs to be alone, by himself, to _breathe_.

He is crushed under the weight of many things. Matka Pluku and the cause she moves for. The proxy war. His past, his future. 

The things he’s done—the things he’s _said_ —no less than several hours ago. 

Raiden grips the rim of the tiny sink. Shame bubbles up in him like a poison. _Humiliation_. How he’d grabbed for Snake, given him the full front of his feelings; how he’d slid to the ground like he was unworthy to be eye level to that man, how he’d clung to his leg, practically begged him to—to _stay by his side_.

“ _I have always been alone. Always.”_

_Yes, that had been it. He’d breathed it like a lowly plea, breathless and desperate and laden with an implicit_ except for you _beneath it all._

_“Raiden…” was all Snake had said, and yet still it felt good. The acknowledgment. The recognition. That he would look at him, take notice of his sad and pathetic state of being. That was the most important._

_And then that little girl—what was her name? He could never remember, even after all these years. Sally, or Susie, or something—had bodily pried him off of Snake, as though he was undeserving. Had propped him up against herself._

_And Raiden looked at Snake and felt the brunt of everything from five years ago, welling up like the ocean (the ocean surrounding Big Shell, he was back in Arsenal again, he—) and he begged,_ begged, 

_“Don’t leave me alone.”_

And—and Snake, chivalrous fuck that he is, had left Raiden alone anyway. 

He could almost laugh at the irony. 

If—if it wasn’t so painful. 

Raiden clamps a hand over his mouth. He isn’t this pathetic. No, really. There’s just so much shit on his plate, and so much has happen to him, and—

He’d thought he would never see Snake again. 

And now—there he was! Standing in front of Raiden, and telling him how he should live his life, giving him advice, just like he had all those years ago. 

Fuck, it’s been so long. 

Something warm coils within his mechanical guts. Something familiar. He knows. He wants. 

He shouldn’t—

He really shouldn’t—

But it’s been so long, and he’s all alone, and Snake is here, Snake is _here_. And when Raiden looks into the small, dusty mirror he sees a naive and helpless young Jack, nude in the pits of Arsenal, and, and—

(He remembers the nights after Big Shell vividly. Sometimes he’d wake in the dark and he’d hear the Colonel again, feel his madness in the fissures of his brain. Sometimes he’d be fighting Solidus—his _father_ —atop the Federal Hall, and then Rose would bring him down, bring him back into the present. 

And then sometimes he’d sneak out of their bed and into their shared bathroom. He’d summon up his greatest imagination and burry three wet fingers deep inside himself, tightly cover his mouth so the sound would be muffled when he climaxed and cried _“Pli—_ )

In the lavatory of the Nomad, Raiden’s hips stutter. This is unbearable. 

He doesn’t even have anything down there, not anymore. That’s the thing about mechanical bodies—the people that build them are just as afraid of encroaching on the taboo that is sex as everybody else. Raiden has nothing to wrap his fingers gently around, nothing he can drive them up and into as he nears his climax. 

But he has his imagination. 

And his—maybe this is the saddest thing of all—and his hand still travels south regardless. 

He runs a clawed finger along the cold, smooth metal plain and his eyelids flutter. There’s no sensation, of course, but he pictures what it might be like if there was. 

( _Jack_ Raiden’s always been good at picturing things that aren’t actually there, after all.)

Behind his eyelids, he sees Snake as he was five years ago. Young, sure of himself. Back then he’d gone by Iroquois Pliskin. He’d been the only one, the only person who’d ever been there to drive away the terror. He’d been the light in the darkness of Arsenal’s belly, the one who could bring Raiden out and into the real world. 

But what he didn’t tell him then—Raiden chokes on a sob, rubs his fingers faster, imagines, imagines—was that the real world _fucking sucked_.

He couldn’t live like that. Couldn’t live like he was anything other than a mindless soldier, born and built to follow orders ( _Snake’s_ orders, he wanted to follow _Snake’s_ —!) and it killed him. Killed him the way freedom does to those who have lived in cages their whole lives. 

Sure, he had Rose back then too, but—

(He imagines his fingers inside himself, slick and sticky. He remembers asking Rose to do this before, and she had been sweet and soft and gentle, prepping him with just the right amount of lube so that the stretch wouldn’t burn, but it hadn’t been _right_ , because he needed it rough, needed it beaten into him. 

And besides, he loved Rose. And whatever it was he felt for Snake—dependence, need, want—it certainly wasn’t love. 

It wasn’t enough.)

—but Rose has only ever been the woman in his ear, whose lies to him that day had dripped like sticky ink-back tar until they had stuck and stopped-up their relationship. 

He wants—fuck, he wants—

The Snake of the present day isn’t pretty. He had wrinkles on his hands, burn scars marring his face. He’s on the end of his rope and you can see it even in the way he moves, as though death follows every step. He’s uncertain, shaking and frail in these recent revelations. As though he’d thought, some million years ago, that everything would be better after Shadow Moses. 

(He’s like Raiden in that regard. He’s just like Raiden—)

Even so Raiden would let him—he’d let him fuck him. Maybe let him fuck his mouth, let him come down his throat and on his lips as he tells him about which parts of Shadow Moses had the heaviest security. 

Raiden whimpers. His one hand is moving fast, sliding back and forth against his codpiece purposelessly. His other is gripping the rim of the sink, so tightly he might snap it with his abnormal strength. He bites his lip, tender and sensitive—and it bleeds sweet milky white, and the sight of that streaked across his metal jawline and his pink upper lip in the mirror has him moaning the loudest he has yet. 

Fuck—he knows that it wouldn’t be hard to hear him. Hal Emmerich and that little girl can probably hear every damn thing. (If—if Snake was still aboard the Nomad, he’d be hearing it too—) But who even cares; that little girl had probably had her innocence broken just days ago when Hal had fucked that Naomi woman on the seat of the helicopter. Yeah, he’d heard them. He remembers how that woman had screamed like a _slut_ when she came—

(Would—would Snake call him a slut? He’s gotten so loud. Gotten so needy. He _needed_ Snake to do it, needed him to debase him and then stand him back up and tell him to get back out there—

He needed—

Needed Snake—)

He whines, and the sound is compressed and scratchy. It’s humiliating, but he wants, and wants—

He tests the name on his lips—fuck it, he’s stooped so low already. Mouths “Snake,” quietly and it sounds like static, it tastes like blood on his lips. Then tries “Pliskin,” and his hips thrust forward to hard he puts a dent in the counter below the sink. 

It’s unbearable. It’s _unbearable_.

Because Snake left the first time, and Snake is going to leave again. 

He has only ever been able to be what he is—a soldier, a follow, a shadow—thanks to that man. And without him he’s been lost, fuck, he’s barely the same person he was five years ago. 

Jack? Does anyone even remember Jack?

He’s lost his _body_. Is there any greater separation you can feel from your past self?

“Pliskin, _Pliskin_ ,” He pants, heavy, heady, and bite of it is sour like medicine. It’s harsh, and his reflection is unrecognizable. He’s no one. He’s nothing— _nothing_ —without, without—

_“You were the lightning in that ran.” Snake had said._

_And suddenly Snake looked too old, looked too fragile. Like he was going to suddenly slip away._

_If Raiden was the lightning, then—_

And suddenly there’s a surge of feeling, it’s too much (it’s always been too much, ever since Big Shell everything has always been _too much_ ), and Raiden grabs his codpiece as his hips snap forward and his eyes squeeze shut. There, in the tiny lavatory of the Nomad, in his mechanicals body, Raiden cums harder than he ever has in his life. 

Isn’t that—it’s so sad how he—

He collapses to the floor again. Pants, breathless and exhausted. He imagines Hal Emmerich in the other room, checking his vitals. Wonders what he’d think; and he chuckles to himself. 

This is pathetic. The worst. Like he’s given a dying person their last shot of morphine; these feelings for Snake—whatever they are—are dead, dead, dead. And they have been for five years. 

Rose is out there, maybe. She had always loved him, was always there for him. And he, her, save for those moments he would—

(Did she ever hear him? Did she know?

But then, she’s already seen him at his weakest before. 

Fuck, what have they done with their lives?)

Raiden braces his hands against the cramped lavatory walls, and makes to stand back up. His knees are shaking, and something in him finds that hilarious—that he’s going to come out the same as he went in. 

He opens the door. Breathes “The lightning…” to himself so softly he almost does not realize. 

This is the last time he will ever do this. 

(Arsenal is always waiting on the other side.)

.


End file.
